


Wake Me with a Kiss

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: ReGenesis
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Necrophilia, RACK - Freeform, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-16
Updated: 2009-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was David on the table, with tubes in his arms and a sheet pulled up under his chin. His face was pale, his eyelids never twitched and when Wes ran a thumb along his cheek his skin was cold to the touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Me with a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 3x02. Warnings follow.

Wes stepped into the clean white room and quietly shut the door. It wasn't a morgue, or at least it wasn't designed to be, but it was cold and there was a body in it, so he decided to call it one anyway—if the shoe fits, etc.

He willed himself to walked towards the still figure on the table, placing one foot in front of another, though every nerve was screaming at him to run away. He'd done some bad things before, unethical, immoral things even, but this was a whole new kind of wrong. Another two steps to close the distance. He took a deep breath and looked down.

There was David on the table, with tubes in his arms and a sheet pulled up under his chin. His face was pale, his eyelids never twitched and when Wes ran a thumb along his cheek his skin was cold to the touch.

"Crazy motherfucker," he whispered. "You never did listen. Not once."

Wes turned the sheet down with practiced efficiency, hands hardly shaking at all. There was David's throat, bare chest studded with electrodes, belly, hipbones, limp cock, thighs, knees, shins and feet. The sheet, now neatly folded, was barely warmer than the room; the inert flesh it covered not radiating enough heat to warm it. He looked at the body lying there. So strange to see—the mighty Dr. David Sandström, lying so small and still. Only mortal after all.

Wes scrutinized his throat, his upturned wrists, looking for the jump of a blood vessel, but there was no motion, and no whisper of breath stirred the hairs on his knuckles when he held his hand below David's nose. Wes didn't know what all the machines still hooked up to the body did, but none of them seemed to be doing much of anything at the moment. The one he did recognize, the heart rate monitor, was silent, its alarm disabled while the green line ran flat.

Eventually Wes let his eyes drift back to David's face, pallid and serene. He was beautiful.

He'd put his foot down on this induced human hibernation thing, tried everything in his power as NorBAC's interim director and as David's friend (read: moderately antagonistic acquaintance with a professional interest in his continued survival) to dissuade or block Sandström from testing it on himself. Fat lot of good that had done.

Wes gently lifted one of David's hands, feeling the chill weight of it, noticing a patchy fresh-bruise discoloration on the underside. Livor mortis—gravity drawing heavy red blood cells through the serum and causing blood to pool against the lower surfaces of the body, except where pressure from a hard surface compresses capillaries (oh, the things one learns hanging around with scientists every day). He raised the hand to his face and brushed the fingertips against his lip.

He lowered the flaccid arm gently to the table and leaned across David's chest. His mouth hovered over David's, a fraction of an inch away, but he couldn't bring himself to close the distance. Instead he kissed his forehead, his cheek, his throat. His chin was rough with stubble, which was unexpected but not entirely surprising—hair growing after death or skin receding, whatever the true story was, it was a documented phenomenon.

He moaned a little into David's collarbone while his hand wandered down David's chest, trailing through hair and between electrodes to brush his ribs, his abs, his hips. Somehow the answering silence, the void which echoed with the absence of gasps, moans, whispered names or even of the barely-perceived but always present rhythm of a pulse, was more erotic than any sound he'd ever heard.

Wes moved down the length of David's body, following with his mouth the trail blazed by his fingers. How incredible to touch a body and feel the warmth of your own hands lingering on flesh too cold to swallow it up—how despicable, how delicious. A knot of vipers writhed in the pit of Wes' stomach, squirming shame and the fear of being caught (the fear of being allowed to continue), but at the same time, somewhere nearer the base of his spine, another serpent uncoiled, hissing a rhapsody of desire.

He bit into the flesh over David's hipbone with a strangled moan and fumbled desperately with his own fly.

One knee braced against the struts of the gurney supported his weight, allowing one hand to roam freely over the cold flesh spread like a buffet before him while the other slipped inside his slacks to pump feverishly at his cock. Panting, sweat soaking the back of his shirt, fingernails scoring David's slack torso (the welts didn't even flush pink!), it wasn't long before Wes came like a gunshot. It took almost as much time again for his head to slow its spinning enough for him to blink, stinging eyes making him notice for the first time that his face was drenched with sweat and tears. Finally, either free of the spell or too thoroughly bewitched to give a damn, he leaned forward to press his shaking lips to David's.

The sudden chirp of his watch, reverberating like a siren in the silent room, sent his heart into his throat and nearly knocked him off his feet. He silenced the alarm and staggered away from the table, lunging forward again to pull the sheet back up, then retreated to a corner of the room. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed frantically at his burning face, collar and the wet spot on his trouser front. Panic rising in his throat like bile, he glanced furtively from the door, to David, to the technological arcana in whose tendrils David's body was entangled, a symbiotic cyborg.

Wes yanked his jacket closed over his stained crotch as the door swung open and Carlos entered, accompanied by a quartet of nurses and techs. Wes tried to smile wryly, nonchalant as any administrator present to observe his star scientist's latest terrible decision become a miraculous success ought to be, but Carlos did not reciprocate his smile. Instead he kept his distance, shooting Wes a look of intense disquiet and concern and pointing silently to the mirrored dome of a camera on the ceiling above the door, before gloving up to inspect the patient-corpse.

Crimson face turned to the linoleum, Wes crab-walked slowly towards the door while Carlos initiated the revival sequence, flushing the chemical cocktail preventing David's body from recognizing oxygen and kick-starting his cardiovascular system with a shot of epinephrine. He looked up at the clatter of David gasping and bucking up from the table, panic-wide eyes drinking in the strange surroundings.

David's rolling head froze when he caught sight of Wes, disheveled, winded and trying to escape, and he rasped a laugh that gave way to a cough. Through watering eyes he managed to wink—we'll talk about this later—and Wes smiled tentatively back, then hurried off to commandeer that security footage.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: character death, dubious/non-consent, **necrophilia-sort-of**. That's right, it's dead dude fantasy time. Written for and betaed by the fabulous Wilde_stallyn during the amnesty period for my 2008 Kink Bingo card.


End file.
